


Rebels and Mutineers

by Come_BackToMe



Series: When my time comes around [1]
Category: Daybreak (TV)
Genre: Aftermath, Cussing, Fixing the one plothole that the writers forgot, Ghoulies, M/M, Our boy is alive and playing the ultimate game of hide and seek, Season 1 Spoilers, Swearing, Wesley will get the dance that he deserves, relationships across the board because we can
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-01-31 10:57:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21445111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Come_BackToMe/pseuds/Come_BackToMe
Summary: In which Turbo comes to live on the rooftop of the mall and plots how he can convince Wesley to leave the Daybreaker's.
Relationships: Josh Wheeler/KJ, Ms. Crumble | The Witch & Angelica Green, Sam Dean/Mona Lisa, Wesley Fists/ Turbo Bro Jock
Series: When my time comes around [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1552114
Comments: 42
Kudos: 170





	1. In which Turbo hates everyone except Wesley. He's perfect.

Turbo Pokaski isn’t stupid.

He’s many things: A jock, a (ex)leader, a bully (negotiable), a murderer (without doubt), and a boyfriend (a title he’s stubbornly kept).

But he isn’t stupid. Just because he can’t say the words now, or spell them, or get them to the front of his mind as quickly as the rest, it doesn’t mean that he’s any less smart because of it.

So he knows how this is going to go.

The threats been dealt with, Sam Dean’s taken his old tribe, Triumph’s dead, and they aren’t mutated freaks… well, more than usual. Everything’s back to normal. The last disjointed piece of the puzzle is him.

Now, maybe it would be alright if he was willing to be a drifter. To disappear out of Glendale and try his hand in one of the other cities out there. Turbo thinks he’d be alright at that, find a reliable bike and get the hell out of dodge.

But, of course, there’s a problem.

“You can’t be serious?” Josh (prick) has the nerve to look shocked.

“Of course I am.” Wesley’s recently - _think -_ serene demeanour - _got it_ \- is gone. Turbo isn’t sure if it left when they had the du<strike>a</strike>l, or the madness with Burr, but his boyfriend’s back is ramrod straight and he’s got that determined look on his face.

Wesley takes Josh by the elbow and the pair stride off into one of the stores, Turbo watches after them carefully. Josh isn’t that high on his list of people to kill anymore, but he still shouldn’t be trusted, and for good reason. If Josh managed to piss off Sam Dean, something that not even Turbo managed to fully do and he probably deserved it, then there’s something wrong with the skateboarder. Sam Dean manages to like everyone, even cannibal principals, so her threshold for assholes is pretty high.

Rejected. The kid was rejected painfully according to Mona Lisa. Turbo saw that spark in her eyes between blinking and sitting on his throne. Sam Dean’s angry. Really fucking angry. She’s just better at hiding it than Turbo is.

Maybe, if he’s lucky, Sam and Josh will take each other out, and Turbo can have his tribe back and Wesley’s full attention once again.

For now he has to watch the crowd standing a safe ten feet away from him. Turbo doesn’t doubt that he can deal with most of them, the Cheermazon’s have returned to their compound to rebuild and there’s not a single archer amongst the group. Before he can think about it too much, there’s a crackling sound that shouldn’t be laughter, and The Witch makes herself known.

A short blonde girl’s trotting in front of her, positioning herself in the no mans land between him and the Daybreaker's.

Angelica is clever.

If he was going to cause trouble then he’d have to go through her first, and most importantly, The Witch. The last time he messed about with an adult has a sharp ache at the front of his face flare, throw in the fact that he still hasn’t managed to work out how their old teacher did her vanishing act, and he's not feeling the urge to test his luck just yet.

“All sorted.” Wesley appears at his side without warning.

Turbo waits to be let in on the details but Wesley is more interested in leading him down one of the service corridors and up three flights of stairs. This might be the first chance they have to talk properly, if Wheeler didn’t catch up with them, arms full carrying what looks like an oversized rucksack.

Overall, he deeply dislikes Josh Wheeler, but he thinks right now he’s hiding it pretty well.

“Right,” Wheeler says when they come out onto the open rooftop, “the plan is for you to stay up here until…”

They come up with a better plan.

_When are we leaving?_

Wesley frowns at him. “We’re not.”

_Then why am I here?_

Turbo’s face must betray his confusion. Josh pulls out one of those pop up tents, a sleeping bag, and gives the weakest attempt at scowling that Turbo’s ever seen. “If you go then he goes, and these guys need Wesley.”

Of course he’d want to keep Wesley here, why wouldn’t he, but the most important thing to focus on is the acknowledgement that his boyfriend will come with Turbo when the time is right.

They’re back to being a given, not a question.

It isn’t like Turbo would have allowed them to be separated again, there’s been enough of that. He simply expected more from the Daybreaker's, objections or threats of violence, a protest at the very least. But they either don’t see him as any real threat, or they’ve become weak enough that all self preservation has gone out of the window.

Wheeler makes a point of clapping his hand against Wesley’s shoulder when he leaves them to it and Turbo wonders whether anybody would object if he took off one of the man’s fingers. Make them an equal number again.

When they’re finally alone, Turbo wants to fall into Wesley like he usually can when they’re alone. But there’s a line of tension there that tells him for once that the gesture won’t be welcome, and call him a romantic but he won’t ever touch Wesley unless he’s happy for him to.

“You shouldn’t wear this stuff,” Wesley passes a hand over his shoulder guard, “if you’re not a Jock anymore.”

Turbo knows Wesley well enough to not give much thought to the distraction. _We should leave._

“No.”

_No?_

“Nope, nada, never, not a chance. And before you say it, I won’t kill any of them, and neither will you.”

That’s not something that Turbo’s agreeing to.

Wesley’s mouth tightens at the corners. “Don’t be petty and predictable.”

Turbo’s about to argue, starts pulling his points together because the samurai seems to be in that mood where he needs logic and reassurance. _I'm being reasonable-_

“Right, we need to get one thing straight here.” Wesley paces, agitated, acting like they haven’t sorted everything out with that farce of a duel earlier. “I’m not going anywhere, this is my home now, and I don’t want to leave them. It’s up to you what you want to do, if you want to stay with me or not.”

If it wasn’t likely that he might end up on the receiving end of a blade, Turbo would point out none too politely that he’s been trying to stay with the bloody idiot this whole time.

_What do you want?_

His boyfriend only turns his head and gives him this challenging smile, the type he used to flash whenever they would practice on the field and the guy would fly across the turf like an angel. If angels preferred hammer pants and floral print gowns.

“This time, I want you to come back to me Turbo.”

\-----

From the way that everyone kept on, Turbo expects Josh to be a decent leader. He’s not.

His first morning on the roof starts cool and bitter. Cool because he fell asleep propped against the lip of the wall around the buildings edge, at just the right angle to keep a wary eye on any sneaks that might try and jump him. Bitter because he’d hoped that Wesley might be here when he woke up, might have gotten past this new mood of serious reflection when they should probably be celebrating that they didn’t get eaten by a crazy cannibal.

Turbo’s mostly sure that they can sort out this fucking tension in a single afternoon with a box of condoms and a keg. No, not a keg, Wesley’s become too much of a priss about what he drinks. A bottle of whiskey?

(He quickly learns the answer to that one when he spies his boyfriend clutching a flute of bubbling liquid a few weeks later. Turbo loves Wesley. He’ll stick around through all of this bullshit to keep him safe. But he sure as fuck won’t touch champagne.)

He thinks of his former tribe, of the drills they’d be doing right now, because it’s nine in the morning and he’s massively overslept. Mona would have taken him to task for this, her sharp tongue and angry words better motivation than any of the coaches he's had on the field, before she’d have turned her attention on to punishing the Jocks for fun. With Sam in charge though? Maybe it’s all changed…

That’s the thought that has him moving in the end, eyes scanning the lot from every angle he can reach on the roof. There’s a group of ghoulies shambling along in slowly forming groups and nobodies out there dealing with the bodies. Turbo can’t quite understand what the hell’s happening, and why the fuck Josh hasn’t sent a patrol out. It’s a horde waiting to happen.

Wesley will have the answer, he always does, and nobody mentioned that he can’t move freely about the mall. Not that he’d have listened anyway.

Turbo finds the man in the kitchen department of one of the larger stores, weighing up two carving knives, placing the more balanced one to the side. He’s smart, always has been. The intense concentration he gives to the task is what Turbo loves about him, the roll up he picks up from the counter not so much.

“I didn’t take you for a creeper.” It figures that Wesley is aware of his surroundings, he was always good on the field like that. Turbo’s about to say something when the man spins gracefully on one heel. “So you’re still here.”

Surprise. Wesley’s surprised even though his face is unreadable. Turbo wouldn’t mind but he’d have thought after everything else his stance would be obvious. Apparently not. _Are you ready to leave?_

“Do I look ready to leave?”

Glancing down at the cream slippers that’ll show every drop of ghoulie blood and muck out there, Turbo’s guessing not. _Then I’m still here._

“Great, great, great, great.” It’s around the third great that Turbo decides that Wesley’s acting strangely. Which doesn’t make much sense considering he’s different anyway, but this is awkward and that’s not what they do.

Tense, yeah there’s normally justification for that. Awkward is a foreign concept to them.

_Who kills the ghoulies?_ He grunts, mainly to provide a distraction.

“Nobody, we leave them alone.”

That might have worked in the beginning. After Burr’s maniacal plans and the bomb, most definitely not. Turbo would have put good money down that every ghoulie in the state heard that shit, probably heading here now because of it.

Mona used to deal with that, ruthlessly maintaining their borders. Considering Wesley’s supposedly Josh’s right hand man, he should know everything, and again Turbo’s left unsurprised by the complacency of the Daybreakers.

“Look, if you want to waste time clearing out a few ghoulies, then please, knock yourself out.”

Fortunately Turbo can speak Wesley as well as the shorter man can do him. He takes a second longer, slower, in the end though he can translate the forced ease, the impromptu weapons gathering, into the real meaning. _I don’t like it either, help me out here._

This is something Turbo can do, step up and sort out the unpleasant things that nobody else can do for Wesley. The man doesn’t like it a lot of the time, but it saves him from making the difficult decisions, lets him sleep at night without too much weight on his chest.

If that isn’t what love is, then Turbo doesn’t know.

\-----

He kills the ghoulies.

For a time at the very beginning he’d had that inch of fear that everyone had, a fear that if he got bitten, the tiniest scratch, that he’d become one of them. Now he knows different, it’s mostly boring.

Swing, sever, drag to a bonfire, make said bonfire if stupid-prick-Josh hasn’t got one burning… Loop around a few times if they start to get overwhelming.

He stops for a few minutes and looks out across the lot, sees the stretch of road ahead that he could march down. There’s nobody that would stop him. They’d probably throw a party.

But Wesley’s not ready yet, so the answer to where he’s going to stay is simple.

It’s towards the end of the afternoon that he’s aware of his audience, the eyes watching him from behind the blockade at the main entrance. He doesn’t get why they spend so long observing, not protecting themselves.

This is why he became a leader in the first place.

Kids need looking after. They need to be kept safe. And Josh Wheeler is going to get somebody killed with his half-assed approach to this misfit tribe of his.

Turbo’s going to have to wait until then, for Wesley to see, to understand that Turbo’s the only one that makes sense. He’ll wait for that moment and he won’t be too smug about being right as always.

\-----

The moment comes only a week later.

Apparently, Josh’s brilliant plan is to let everyone waltz right on in. Now, originally, Turbo wasn’t going to get involved, outside of standing behind Wesley’s shoulder and sneering at the kids that trail in over the days, wide-eyed and fresh faced.

Despite his ardent - he’d looked it up solely to express how pissed off he is in a fancier way - position on the matter, Wesley followed through on scrapping his gear in the middle of the night. It’d been disorientating as fuck to wake up to find everything missing.

“You can’t go around wearing old bike tyres, it’s making me look bad.” His boyfriend huffed when questioned.

Turbo knows what he’s doing, or trying to, and if it wasn’t that he’s doing his best to convince the man to leave this shithole behind and pushing his luck hasn’t worked so far, then there would probably have been one hell of an argument. Making him look less of a threat won’t make these kids forget who he is, and Turbo wouldn’t have it any other way.

He is, however, happy to see that he can still inspire fear in a scruffy leather jacket when it’s paired with his usual grimace. Probably helps his masks long gone, tossed away somewhere in a dumpster more likely than not.

But he’s getting off point… Where was he? Josh, prick, open policy, kid, gun…

Gun.

The new kid has a gun, and he’s pointing it directly in Wesley’s face, not thirty minutes after he’s been welcomed in with open arms.

Unspoken rule, nobody uses fucking guns.

Turbo, in only a week, has become soft enough that he’s let Wesley down, become lazy enough that he hadn’t reacted quick enough, and the kids fingers are shaking on the trigger, and that makes Turbo see red fast enough that his vision smokes at the edges.

_Do it and I’ll fucking destroy you._

It’s disgustingly easy to come behind him (Turbo’s not the quietest of guys) and crack his elbow into the kids temple. Disgusting that nobody was doing much about it before he moved, and that Josh looks like one of those blobfish’s that Hoyles used to call him, and Turbo most definitely hadn’t researched on his laptop at the time.

If he’d had it his way then Turbo would have taken the fucker outside, slashed his tendons and left him strung up for the ghoulies to enjoy. But this is a _civilised _tribe, and apparently that means he shouldn’t gut backstabbing pieces of shit. At least not without a trial first.

It’s in these moments that Turbo misses Mona Lisa. A lot. She always knew how to get shit done without all of these ridiculous morals getting in the way.

“Hey, big guy.” Wesley’s hand curls around his arm and given the jokes he’s heard people make about the gown wearing rōnin, Turbo thinks they should experience the crushing strength his boyfriend has when he wants… or they probably shouldn’t fucking touch him, so scratch that one. “Good job protecting everyone.”

Turbo knows he’s being manipulated into releasing his hold on the scrawny kids throat, and he still allows himself to be moved, to let go and to trail through one of the service corridors until Wesley finally stops.

_Are you okay?_

Then, there it is, the flutter of a finger drumming against his skin, a nervous tic that's not Turbo's.

Wesley might have accepted dying, challenging him to duels and making no serious effort to stay alive sometimes, but facing death unexpectedly would have any man shaken. It takes the barest impression of force from the hand holding his, a quick tug and Turbo knows why he’s been bought here, and the line of his spine is so tight and coiled with leftover fury that he can feel three vertebra pop.

When it comes to anger, like sport, Turbo finds he’s very good at describing things.

_We need to leave._ He presses the command into Wesley’s skin through his fingers, through his arms wrapped around the rōnin.

“I’m not going.” Wesley never likes to see sense, but he sighs against Turbo’s chest.

_It isn’t safe here._

Wesley grunts, sounds exactly like Turbo does when he tries to yell in frustration. “It’s a lot less safe out there.”

Not necessarily. Turbo doubts Wesley will see any reason here, so it’s up to him to stand there strong and let his boyfriend shake for as long as he needs. If Wesley is determined to be stubborn, then until Turbo can make him see sense then he’ll have to make this dump safe somehow.

He resolves to sneak down in the night and kill the little bastard that dared to come here and try to take Turbo’s everything.

Because, after all, he has to start somewhere.

\-----

In the end Turbo doesn’t kill the kid, mainly because he’s distracted by Wesley curling up against his chest in that shitty tent and sleeping a solid twelve hours.

He’s still in a murderous mood though. Getting woken up by a particularly loud scream does that to a guy.

Initially he follows Wesley’s mad run down the stairs, mostly to keep him safe rather than any real concern for the rest of the tribe. Then it’s also out of interest, he can hear the strangest mix of words until the most popular phrase turns out to be the weirdest.

_“Wassup, TURDS!”_

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Wesley laughs and it’s the lightest sound that Turbo’s heard in months. “You’re meant to be dead?”

The source of his losing out on a morning tucked in with his boyfriend is a small gathering, at the centre a pint sized kid that looks like he’s caught between a mixture of swaying on his feet and trying to pull off a gangster sign with the hand not fixed to his side. “No back sliding, pearl clutching, rainbow hating, keg something’s gonna stop this homeboy.”

“Still stealing my lines.”

“Still hating.”

“Josh said you died Eli.”

“Kind of did, I think, not sure,” Eli pauses to peel his shirt up and there, underneath the layers of bandages hastily applied is a gash that’s unbelievably lucky not to be infected, “all I know is that I passed out for ages, woke up to some legless ghoulie trying to chew on my foot and that was it. Thank Mavis and her apocalypse footwear choices that I’m not hopping about like a reject.”

The boy’s dragged himself through the shit with what must have been a gaping stomach wound. Turbo has to allow a bit of respect for that.

Eli doesn’t look inclined to getting himself treated properly, seems happy to look around at all of the attention with a petulant expression. “Wes, my man, compadre, amigo, what the fuck have you let happen to my mall!”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Wesley smirks, gestures wide to even more people rushing towards them, “I was very implicit with your wishes. I said ‘Josh you know Eli would have wanted the mall to be a place of love and care for all the lost souls’.”

“That's sneaky sis."

"My IQ level is a cliche designer brand." Wesley laughs again and Turbo has to control the burst of jealousy in his stomach because it's not gotten him anywhere so far, and it definitely won't be appreciated.

"Ouch, that hurts almost as bad as getting shivved and ditched in a park." Eli snorts. "Also, since when are we letting dogs in?”

It takes a stupid minute for him to realise that the fuckers talking about him, and by then Wesley’s hand has curled around his arm. It’s becoming a regular occurrence getting restrained like this, and it’d be easy to step around but Wesley’s touching him, so fuck it.

“Look, Eli’s…”

Turbo stares at him

“Alright, he’s a bit of an ass. But he’s part of this messed up little family, so…”

_Don’t hurt him._

Wesley grins at him.

Eli looks like he’s going to complain, but then catches sight of Josh and the girl… _think_... KJ, dashing towards them and his whole demeanour changes into the type of mischief that Turbo wants nothing to do with. “Hey, Wheeler, I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

The next hour is the oddest set of events he’s seen in a while as everyone gathers around Jesus reincarnate. Turbo watches them all interact with disdain that he should be able to feel completely, instead it’s a half-assed affair, and he kind of wishes that he was anywhere but here watching them all jump around like they’re really kids. Like the apocalypse never happened.

It’s worse when Wesley leaves him to go and join in, the familiar feeling of being unmoored without a centre point to circle back around to.

“Don’t eat them.”

The Witch appears in his peripherals, her hair coming a few seconds before the rest.

Turbo gives her his most unimpressed look. Damns the burnt mess of his face for probably messing up the effect.

“We’ll keep the monsters safe.” She picks at one of her nails, mutters something else under her breath and then settles for giving him a smile that’s toothy and black.

She’s talking shit. But it’s nice to be beside someone that’s crazier than he is, so Turbo stands next to The Witch and watches while the normals celebrate.

\-----

Nobody disturbs him while he’s dealing with the ghoulies. It’s become a common sight, and he’s become adept at managing the still too high numbers.

For one he’s learnt to make his burning sites farther away, inconvenient when you’re dragging body after body across uneven terrain. Better than having to deal with twice the amount you killed because smouldering flesh smells the same whether you’re a freak or not.

It’s on one of his longer hauls that he’s approached.

“I’m just saying, it all makes sense for me to learn how.” Angelica makes another attempt at convincing him after the first half a dozen shots fail.

Instead of wasting words on her, he shakes his head again, because there’s no way in fucking hell he’s teaching her how to engage with a ghoulie.

“C’mon, we’ll be loads of help.”

By that she means Crumble who’s ten feet behind them, preoccupied with effortlessly dragging a decapitated body in each hand. If he got her a stretcher she could probably cut his job in half.

_Ask your friends._ He mouths and Angelica nods in understanding.

“They’re too nice. They'll panic the second I get too close.” She sighs as if she’s sad, and yet Turbo knows what affection looks like. He’s not stupid. “I need a doucher to show me properly.

_No_.

Angelica pouts and it would be funny if he hadn’t watched her pull the same trick multiple times with multiple Daybreaker's. “C’mon, I’ll trade you something for it?”

As if she has anything he requires.

If he were a coward the sudden shine in her eye would be enough to have him up and run. But he’s not. So he lets out a grumble that only three weeks ago would have netted him a lot more fear than the raised brow he’s receiving. “You used to wear that mask to help protect your face didn’t you? It’s never healed properly.”

_This_ is why he doesn’t like the blonde and The Witch. Both of them are far too fucking smart for his liking.

Angelica grins. “What if I try and make you up a lotion to use? ‘Cos I bet that bitch hurts.”

_And?_

Crumble hovers over her shoulder, whispers something, and the pair look deceptively innocent considering Turbo’s caught The Witch licking a ghoulie's ear like a lollipop. “Okay, what if I throw in a bunch of molotov’s to help with your… border patrol.”

Thanks to Wesley, Turbo’s learnt over the last few months when a stubborn person sets their mind to something then there’s no dissuading them. So he knows that it’s going to be impossible to get either of them to leave him alone, and in the end every second away from his loop is one where something might get inside the mall.

Put it that way and he really doesn't have much of a choice does he.

\-----

Angelica, it turns out, is actually very helpful.

He forgets how smart she is, nuclear bombs and all. She’s also a bloodthirsty little shit. Turbo can work with that.

She’s taken to ghoulie watch surprisingly well for someone that adopted one as a new mom. For some reason he kept expecting her to shy away from the killing part, maybe tuck her head into the Witch’s shawl. Instead she stares each person square in the eye, apologises, and then rams her makeshift spear through their brains. It’s impressive.

“I’m only sorry that they can’t be saved.” She explains when he gives her a questioning stare after she perfectly executes a move he taught her, dropping into a perfect crouch and roll, her small body slotting between a pair of Ghoulies, ending them before they can turn and try again. “They’re not like Crumble or Triumph.”

Wesley mentioned something about brain injuries and the ‘impermanence of life’ and some other shit that Turbo doesn’t much get outside of the fact that Ms. Crumble and Burr are the exceptions, not the rule.

“It’s not fair, but if it were me I’d want somebody to let me rest.”

A respectful opinion. This is the only friend Wesley has that Turbo can understand. Angelica would have made a good Jock, though considering how that turned out it’s probably for the best that she stuck to babysitting Wheeler.

The one issue he has with the pair, with her, is the constant scheming.

“I swear, if you can push that bus around the front there I can rig it up to blow whenever we want.” She lets out a low whistle before smacking her palms together to demonstrate as they stride back towards the mall.

_Why would we do that?_

She has the nerve to roll her eyes at his unimpressed stare. “Because we need to have our shit sorted out, you idiot.”

Burr/Triumph/fucking-prick-asshole is dead. Turbo’s scoped out the cereal factory multiple times now and he’s seen the collection of bones, adult sized, exactly where Wheeler said they’d be. The worst of their enemies have been taken care of as far as the Daybreakers are concerned, so why would she want to-

“Don’t make me spell it out for you, douche.”

_Ah_, Turbo gets it. It seems that he’s not the only one that doesn’t trust the new tribe leader in Glendale.

“I can’t eat them all.” Crumble confirms, though Turbo’s certain that he heard her raving about not touching children as a rule, and if so then she talks about eating people a whole lot more than anyone else he's ever met.

“So, are you going to help me?” Angelica brandishes her Stanley knife for good measure, flicking it in and out, in and out, and Turbo finally decides that if they get attacked then the best plan of defence is probably the one cooked up by the ex-slime lord and her bug eating Witch, both of which didn’t flinch in the face of a nuclear weapon.

Not whatever peace loving bullshit Josh will cook up.

So it’s how Wesley finds them a few hours later, Turbo silently swearing up a storm, grunting next to the Witch, as they slowly roll a pick up across the lot to the tune of Angelica’s barking orders as she steers from the front seat.

“Look at this, go team Daybreak.” Wesley manages to sound sincere and do jazz hands at the same time. It's endearing.

Before Turbo can find the correct way to tell the man he loves to fuck off, the blonde dictator hangs out of the door, a wicked grin on her face.

“Thanks, I like to engage in a healthy dose of bonding, helps build character in the less than admirables." Turbo gives her the flattest look he can muster. "Now if you wouldn’t mind being a dear.” She gestures towards the truck that they've been putting off.

There was probably a time where he might have lost it at somebody for ever suggesting that he’d be one to take part in such a thing. But over the drone of Angelica’s shouting, The Witch’s wild laughter and Wesley’s delighted whooping when they finish, Turbo decides he's okay with putting up with this until they leave.

\-----

He wakes up the next morning to his promised molotov’s, set in the outline of a middle finger, a dodgy looking tub of something that upon opening smells floral, and he definitely doesn’t try to smile.

\-----

There’s an uproar going on when Turbo returns from setting up his latest bonfire, and it’s not Wesley that comes to tell him, but Crumble.

“We have visitors.” His old teacher says, head only slightly twitching. Good for her.

Turbo doesn’t have the patience for much more of this bullshit, but he decides the best plan of attack is to scout it out first, following The Witch as she beckons him.

“You’re old friends have decided they want a peace treaty.” Angelica updates him when they find her, half perched on top of a railing like a fucking crow as she surveys the shuttered down store with a mixture of his people and the Jocks eyeing each other up.

Turbo doesn’t like that he’s automatically calling them _his people_, but he’ll focus on it later.

_Who’s in there?_

He can’t risk actually saying it, not when his throat feels like he’s been chewing on glass. Angelica gets it though, her silly smile on full display when a Jock glances up at her, and Turbo can admit that he was _very _wrong about the blonde if he ever once thought before this that she wasn’t the most intelligent person he’s ever met.

She plays the game better than anyone.

“Josh, Eli and Wesley on team awesome. Super scary ass-kicker-”

_“Mona”_

He surprisingly manages it, though it’s a fucking effort, but Mona Lisa deserves respect, even when he never gave it to her properly himself.

Angelica doesn’t comment on the blood splashing against his teeth, only makes a swiping gesture at her own mouth. “Sorry. Mona Lisa and Sam Dean on their side.”

Only two, but forget Sam, the one they should really worry about is his former second. There isn’t another kid like her, and Wesley’s good, it’s just that she’s better than all of them, and his boyfriend hasn’t exactly got the best back up there.

“What I want to know is why they’ve bought an army for peace talks.” KJ appears from behind them, her eyes darting below them suspiciously. “There’s got to be at least sixty guys out front.”

“Girls as well, don’t be sexist.” Angelica’s left hand strokes the top of her flamethrower like it’s a well loved family pet. “It’s definitely shady though.”

“Guys and girls, and nearly every ghoulie in a mile radius. The Cheermazon’s sent a messenger, there’s a whole bunch of them coming our way.”

Another thing that Turbo’s going to have to deal with later on. At the very least his bonfire should still be blazing.

Somebody coughs behind them and Turbo’s not impressed to see the entirety of the Daybreaker tribe gathering, wonders whether he might be able to shoo them away.

“What do you think?” KJ asks.

It takes Turbo a minute to work out that she’s talking to him, that they’re all looking at him like he’s going to have the fucking answers. He draws a line from one ear to the other, fingernail scraping across his neck and finds it unsettling that all he receives is a series of nods and mumbling agreement.

“Precisely my thoughts, there’s something strange about all of this, and I don’t like it.”

Talking about what they like and don’t isn’t going to do anyone any good, and Turbo might have bashed through those metal shutters to get his boyfriend if the man himself didn’t saunter out a second later. It’s not a gait he uses naturally, and when Turbo says this he doesn’t mean it in a bad way, only that he looks beautiful but it’s hard to enjoy when the only time Wesley moves like that is because he’s stressed, covering discomfort with over-the-top campiness.

Turbo’s only outpaced by Angelica by the time he reaches the group, finds it easy to ignore his old tribe in favour of wedging himself in the small space between Wheeler and Wesley while Sam Dean levels him with the most calculating, sinister look he’s ever seen.

And Turbo’s seen himself in the mirror.

Despite his criticism, Josh seems to have managed at least a shaky truce, although there’s a tension rippling between the Jocks when they all walk outside that Turbo finds his hands worryingly bare without a weapon to hand.

As the tribes about to leave, all but the last few lingering at the outer edges of the parking lot, some low class fucker decides it’s clever to body check Wheeler hard enough the skateboarder almost meets the tarmac face first, if not for Wesley’s quick reflexes catching him.

Why does there always have to be a prick?

Turbo’s meant to have the monopoly on being a prick. Maybe, also, Wheeler.

He doesn’t mean to reflexively reach up and grasp a hand around the guys neck, or throw him down to the ground, or then press the heel of his boot into said neck.

There will never be a soul that’ll claim Turbo fights beautifully, he’s artless and heavy and all brute force without the technique Wesley gracefully applies to everything.

It’s just instinct.

Although doing it in defence of Wheeler makes him feel a little bit sick. He justifies it by shortening the gap to Wesley and claiming in his head that he’s only protecting his boyfriend from potential danger.

Considering he doesn’t crush the worms windpipe, doesn’t apply the slightest bit of pressure more than is enough to hold him down, the atmosphere seems to drop five degrees. Turbo ignores the feeble attempts to move him, the spluttering and wriggling shit should be grateful that he’s not dead.

“Fancy calling the dog off?” Mona Lisa drawls, bored and aloof, like she’s wasting her time. It’s a little hurtful, if he had the time to feel hurt. But Turbo’s seen the way she looks at Sam, and he’s not surprised at where her priorities now lie, he’s glad for her truthfully.

“_Hey!”_ Eli Cardashyan pops up like a particularly annoying gremlin. “Only I’m allowed to call him that.”

Before everything can deteriorate the two supposed leaders talk, quiet and fast, and Turbo realises that Wesley’s looking at him with dark eyes, mouth curling at the corners in amusement and, for the first time in a long while, pride.

It’s an effort to realise that the rest of the Daybreakers are shifting behind him again, a united front and…

_Fuck. Fuck. Fucking hell._

They all think he’s protecting Wheeler.

An alien and disconcerting feeling rises in his chest, and doesn’t lower until hours later, after the Jock’s have left, and he’s sat cross-legged in his tent, Wesley perched on top of him, gripping his hair in a jarring grip, tongue doing painfully sinful things.

They’ll leave soon he promises himself to justify everything.

\-----

“We’re having a party.” His boyfriend announces.

Turbo’s bleary eyed, both uneasy at being woken abruptly, and relieved to find the man still pressed against him in near the same position they slumped down under the assortment of blankets that Wesley at some point moved up to his rooftop.

_Why?_

“Because you ruined my last dance.”

It’s a good point. He isn’t going to apologise for it.

“Of course you won’t.” Wesley knows him intuitively, sighing heavily as if Turbo can’t feel his grin without looking. “But you’re still coming. Do it for me.”

_That’s very manipulative._

Wesley’s head comes up, mouth drops open, and Turbo can’t laugh properly. He’d really like to.

“You’re unbelievable.” A closed fist punches half-heartedly into his shoulder. “And you’re going because you owe me.”

_I’ll go because I love you._

There’s never any need to behave otherwise, even when Wesley acts like he hates him, when he actually does a little bit, and Turbo’s alright with that. They know each other too well at this point to pretend otherwise.

It’s why he can close his eyes and listen to the noise that is Wesley in the morning, the babbling about random things that mean next to nothing but also everything because it’s important to his boyfriend.

Turbo breathes in slowly, the smell of the samurai etched into his nose, sweat, and the oil from the tin he uses on his blade, and the new lavender soap he’s trying out from the little kiosk by the food court.

They’ll leave soon. For now though, he’ll go to this dance to keep the peace.


	2. In which Turbo reluctantly hates everyone a little less.

There was a time when Turbo was feared, when the only person that would risk approaching him before dawn was his second, and maybe Sam Dean. But either way Turbo demanded respect and those around him cowered in his presence.

Now he’s woken up by an inconspicuous scuffling that, after almost decapitating the suspect with the hatchet Wesley found for him in the home repairs store, Turbo realises is a not so subtle blonde poking about outside his tent.

“You awake?” Angelica pokes her head through the tent flaps, apparently unconcerned with what she’ll find, or that she might lose the hand waving cheerily at him. “Great, I need you to hide some shit for me.”

_Why?_

Turbo prides himself on being prepared for anything, he doesn’t sleep undressed, ready to fly into a fray even while unconscious. But Angelica isn’t messing about either and so by the time he’s rolled to his feet and awkwardly shuffled out of the too small space the blondes already dragging in a large rucksack that clinks and rattles ominously.

“Apparently I’m developing a taste for ‘pyromaniac activities’.” Angelica spits out furiously. “I’m being oppressed for being the only one that thinks ahead. You wait, when a horde comes in, or we get attacked, or the mutant pugs rise up, it’ll be all ‘Angelica please save us’ and I’ll be sat up here laughing.”

Turbo lifts up a pile of Wesley’s clothing so she can slide bag of lighters underneath. She smartly doesn’t comment on the disproportionate ratio of his belongings to his boyfriends.

“Thanks,” what looks like a collection of butterfly knives gets shoved under his sleeping bag, “it’ll be you, me and Crumble sitting safe at this rate-”

_Wesley._

She senses his disapproval and concedes. “Of course we’ll have Wesley-”

Turbo grunts.

“- but the rest can get lost.”

_Where’s _ _The Witch_ _?_

“Hiding my flame-throwers.” Angelica cusses softly under her breath as she nicks her pointer finger on what can’t be described as anything less than a machete. “I mean is there nothing sacred anymore!”

Turbo isn’t sure that he’s meant to notice the plural usage there. He decides it isn’t worth arguing over.

“Here, you might find these useful.” She tosses a pair of sickles through the air as if they’re paperweights and not deadly weapons that look sharp enough to slice his hand off. “I’ve got another set somewhere in the sneaker store on the first floor.”

Angelica’s remarkably adept at reading his shorter sentences from little more than a shrug. Longer, more complicated speech still requires that he do a mixture of crude hand gestures and miming.

She scrunches her nose up while he feels like a fool until she finally gets it. “I don’t know why everyone’s got a stick up their asses but it’s probably because of this dance. Josh thinks that it’ll be bad if I it looks like we’re stockpiling weapons.” Angelica finally seems satisfied, shoving a large boot knife into place before straightening. “I mean, last time that was all on you guys, not us.”

At a glance his tent looks undisturbed, aside from the molotov’s. But they’re his and if Wheeler wants to start Turbo will throw him off of the building.

_Ignore them._

“Yeah I could ignore him… But it’s Josh and sometimes you have to be nice to the people you care about.”

Turbo snorts.

“Shut up,” Angelica whirls on one wheeled heel and scowls up at him, hands snapping to her waist, “we all know that you’d come running if Wesley called.”

The difference between them, whether it’s age or the chemical imbalance that makes her a sparky kid and him a monster, is that Turbo won’t deny anything because he’s fine with the truth when it comes to the samurai.

“You love him.” Angelica sighs like it’s a affliction she pities him for.

Precisely.

“Why?”

She wants an explanation and he hasn’t got one to give that wouldn’t most likely disturb her. Wesley’s a corrosion in his heart, tapping against his rib cage every time he breathes, a unceasing rhythm that Turbo’s stuck with for life. Not that he’s complaining, but it’s difficult to put into a look how his feelings are similar to a broken vein, Wesley spills through him, unstoppable and relentless and Turbo wouldn’t exchange that for the world.

In a way he’s relieved when Wheeler inevitably crashes onto the rooftop with all the grace of a wounded animal and Angelica dives behind his tent to hide, if only because it means that he doesn’t have to find words for something inexplicably complicated.

Fuck.

He was once feared and now he’s playing babysitter to the infamous slime-lord.

\-----

“You’re sulking.”

Turbo isn’t. He’s pissed off. And it’s a totally reasonable response to thinking that he’d have some alone time with his boyfriend while they hunt through the lower streets of Glendale for a couple dozen Bluetooth headsets.

“How can anyone sulk when they have such pretty company.” Eli drawls, or tries to. Turbo thinks he sounds like a prick. “I’m the king of good times.”

“You’re the queen of all things tacky and nasty Eli.” Wesley huffs around whatever jackass brand of weed he’s smoking.

“I’ll take that, sis, I’ll take that.” Eli winks, teeth glowing like snow (who the fuck manages to keep them _that_ white). “You know this queen is the one to go to for cheap shit and I plan to deliver.”

“Poor Mavis.”

“My girl loves it.”

Turbo’s in hell, and considering the days after he woke up post bomb, face screaming, skin on fire, he’s definitely the best one to pass judgement.

They’re on the fourth store that the gremlin has promised will have the ‘goods’ and yet again Turbo’s certain that they’re wasting their time. Those sickles Angelica tossed him have come into good use, not that he’s ever going to be good as a reaper, but they’re a handy substitute in a pinch when his hatchet embeds a little too deeply in a ghoulies skull.

When they get back out into the main street the suns dipping too low and the shadows creep in funny shapes across the tarmac. Turbo doesn’t have any reservations about being out after dark, but he isn’t stupid enough to linger anymore than he has too.

“I’m telling you, this next place is the one. I’ve got a nose for it.” Eli smirks, though he flinches when a ghoulie stumbles a little too closely before Turbo dispatches it.

“Surprised you can smell anything over all of that stank cologne.” Wesley’s hands resting on his blade, eyes darting about in a quick surveillance that his high mind shouldn’t be capable of. “But this is the last one Cardashyan, I’m far too pretty to die.”

“We’ll be fine, we’ve got Frankenstein here looking out for us.”

Turbo’s about to end him when Wesley’s hand shoots out, an explosive motion contained in a single backhand to the kids head, joint still clutched between his fingers. “Have some respect.”

“Hey!” Eli winces a bit too much for such a light blow. “Wait, so I can call him a dog but not Frankenstein, your rules are whack.”

Wesley smirks behind the curl of smoke escaping his lips. “Mm-hm, he’s my dog though. So watch your mouth.” The little shit has the nerve to pat Turbo’s cheek, withdrawing before Turbo bites him. “Now find me these headphones or I’m leaving you out here.”

“Wouldn’t be the first guy.” Eli snarks, but there’s a genuine joy in his face and if Turbo wasn’t still stuck on the comparison of being called a dog then he’d find it weird.

The fifth store is the one, rows and rows of false merchandise line the walls, and Turbo recognises most of it thanks to the fashion sense of the Gremlin crowing in victory. “I told you faithless bitches, follow ol’ Eli he knows the way.”

“Isn’t that a Hobbit thing?” Wesley laughs.

“Gollum actually, don’t play a player sis.” Eli shakes his head in disgust. “Mixing up my boy Tolkien’s characters like that. Show some respect.”

It’s rich coming from a knock-off Jesus in a knock-off store but the excitement on Wesley’s face is enough to settle him against the front door on watch. He doesn’t like the increasing numbers of mutant canines roaming about recently. Dealing with a group of ghoulies is completely different than dealing with a socialites jacked-up chihuahua. One on it’s own is manageable if you’re lucky, a pack not so much. Though much to his surprise it’s not a pair of amber eyes that watch him from across the street, but a dozen Jocks.

“They won’t break the treaty.” Wesley pipes up when Turbo grunts the news to him, deceptively calm even with his sword unsheathed.

_Does the treaty cover no man’s land?_

“It’s meant to.”

Turbo isn’t feeling reassured by that for some reason, less so when Eli prances up next to him, expression sobering a little too quickly, and for the first time saying something that Turbo can agree with. “Man, fuck these assholes.”

Wesley’s still out of sight, a purposeful act. “What do they want?”

_Revenge._ On him, for all of his faults at the end, the less than admirable way he behaved as a leader, the betrayal of bringing ghoulies to what should have been a tribe fight, for working with their enemies, for not protecting them from Burr, and worst of all they’ll want Wesley for standing next to him and ploughing his way through their numbers like crumpled paper.

This is bad.

“I don’t suppose there’s a back door to this place?” Wesley slings a half full pack over his shoulder.

“Nah, course not. Just wait a second.” Eli says lowly, fishing through his pockets.

Turbo has no intention of waiting for them to get close enough to herd them into a corner, and he almost crushes the hand that slaps over his chest.

“Wait, big guy.” Eli mutters. “Give them a chance.”

Turbo’s about to send the shit flying out of irritation when he spots the flash of a blade in the dim light, he growls, steps forward in warning-

“First draw.” Eli bellows, pulls his arm back and launches a small circular device through the air where it detonates a few inches above the Jocks.

“What the fuck is that?” Wesley gapes and Turbo doesn’t get it either, the sound was a whip crack across his senses and it takes him a second to realise that the kids opposite them are coated in glitter and fluorescent flakes.

“This is the bit where we run gentlemen.” Eli shouts back over his shoulder, fuckers already sprinting away, baggy pants held high in one hand.

Turbo pauses only to make sure Wesley goes ahead of him before following, not that there’s much chance they could be followed, the Jocks weave about disorientated and the last sight Turbo catches as they blast around a corner is a particularly ornery beagle charging down the street.

“What the hell Eli.” Wesley rudely won’t pull ahead into the gap that Turbo’s leaving him, keeping pace with him instead and completely exposed to whatever might come after them.

“Come on that was a fire plan.” Eli gasps, out of breath already. “Light them up like a shitty disco ball and _boom _instant distraction. No blood on Eli’s high tops.”

_It’s a good idea_. Turbo grunts in agreement.

“Oh don’t you start.” Wesley groans, elbow jabbing into Turbo’s side.

“Ho, shit, does Frankenstein agree with me?”

Wesley, quite rightly, swats the Gremlin once they finally crash into the mall an hour later, and to the surprise of the small crowd that greets them, Turbo’s grins as he watches them.

\-----

“Mona Lisa came personally to tell us Sam’s punished the kids that tried to jump you.”

Josh Wheeler is a prick.

He’s also a terrible leader that lets his tribe shout and squabble like children. Even though there’s only the core group of Daybreakers gathered it still hasn’t resolved much since Wesley gave his report on what happened.

“Do you think they meant it?” KJ says and Wheeler flushes under her scrutiny.

Now here’s another reason why Turbo will never like the kid, he can’t understand how it’s possible to see-saw back and forth between people as if his feelings are as substantial as water running through a sieve. For Turbo’s there’s Wesley, and that’s it.

“She made it clear that they didn’t know Wesley or Eli were there.”

“What’s that got to do with it?” Wesley asks at the same time Eli shouts: “Bullshit!”

“Well they think- thought, that the treaty only applied to people in a tribe.”

Turbo thinks that Sam Dean probably phrased it that way and she’s a hell of a lot smarter than he gave her credit for. Mona Lisa too, if she’s willing to play messenger like this. There’s something off about the whole situation that Turbo doesn’t like and he hasn’t got enough information to call it out.

“Anyway, it’s dealt with.” Wheeler fiddles with his mannequin finger, a gesture that’s mostly a nervous one. “I told them that Turbo’s with the Daybreakers now.

_Fuck_.

Before he can find a way to convey just how irritated he is with that unasked for claim Wesley stares him down from across the room and Turbo isn’t in the mood to fall out over such bullshit so he leans back against a table and tries to make it less obvious that he's thinking of ways to gut the skateboarder.

Angelica’s sat criss-cross on top of the one opposite him. “I’m just gonna say what I’ve been saying from the start. Wouldn’t it be helpful if we all had certain instruments to defend ourselves? Y’know, the ones with the pointy ends.”

Wheeler sighs. Theatrical Bitch. “Nobody needs that many weapons, I’ve already found the stash in the hairdressers.”

“I want Betty, Joan and Vera back!”

“Who names their flame-throwers?” Eli asks.

Wesley groans as the blonde kicks off for the third time. He’s lighting up another joint and for the first time since the apocalypse began Turbo’s jealous that his throat and lungs might combust if he joined in, because right now he’d take any sort of distraction from this shit.

“Enough.” KJ has to shout over the spiralling argument. “We need to be practical. I know that Sam’s promised us the treaty holds Josh, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a few extra precautions in place.”

Wheeler’s lips thin and Turbo finds his discomfort funny. Watching the clearly superior one out of the two take charge brings him some joy out of this bullshit meeting.

“What sort of precautions?”

“The kind that only two of us know how to do.” KJ points to the shortest amongst them.

“Oh, hell no.” Angelica shakes her head. “Don’t look at me for help now you’re desperate.”

“We’re not desperate.” Wheeler tries to sound convincing.

“I’m on team Angelica here. You can’t just use us whenever you want bitch.” Eli stomps up next to her and from his smirking face very clearly only trying to stir trouble.

The Witch positions herself behind the pair.

“Wesley?” Wheeler asks hopefully.

“Sorry, this rōnin is sitting on the side for this one.” His boyfriend raises his joint in a salute before he slouches back into a chair. “I’m trying to avoid unnecessary conflict, gives you wrinkles.”

It takes both the prick and KJ staring at Turbo for him to understand that for some godforsaken reason they want him to weigh in on the disagreement. He’s about to shake his head before the usual pull of scarred skin at his neck doesn’t flare up. The strange lotion that he’s cautiously been trying hasn’t helped with the disfigurement, nothing will, but it’s taken the itch and scrape of pain away.

Angelica demands a high five from him as he settles behind her.

Again, Josh Wheeler isn’t a good leader, proves this in the long drawn out sound of defeat before he gives in. “Alright what do you want?”

Angelica’s been planning for this, pulls out a notebook with too much relish and starts listing out her demands. “Let me begin with the immediate return of my three precious girls…”

Turbo will never understand these idiots.

\-----

The Cheermazon’s stop by while Turbo’s in the middle of helping Eli rig up a device that’s ‘totally not a land mine’. He may be right, but Turbo thinks it’s not far off as he watches the kid play with the controls until he’s satisfied.

He’s mainly there to be the muscle, covering while Angelica and Eli drift around the mall, creating all sort of traps and gizmo’s that Turbo will happily admit he’s impressed by. For the first time he’s starting to understand how the Gremlin managed to cope for so long alone, and when the kid keeps his mouth shut, Cardashyan is weirdly interesting to watch tinker about.

And then the guy talks and Turbo remembers why he dislikes him. 

“Oh, damn, ladies are looking fine tonight.”

It’s the middle of the day, the suns a little too hot on his neck and Turbo’s certain that Eli’s the one that most resembles a panting dog right now.

“I mean don’t get me wrong, I’m a loyal boy, but still…”

Turbo has to come to the unsettling realisation that Eli is somehow both a survivalist genius and a desperate shit, and it’s only more evident when they go inside and the kid acts like he’s an old black and white movie star instead of sporting more fake gold chains than a rapper.

Wesley detaches himself from the rest. “You joining in.”

_With what?_ Turbo frowns.

“Josh and Victoria are holding a class, you know, for sign language.” Wesley’s got that look in his eye where he starts to get a bit too ahead of himself. “Think how good it would be if you-”

_Don’t get any ideas._

“Come on, don’t tell me you wouldn’t enjoy talking to other people?”

Is that a joke?

Wesley takes in his disturbed expression and tuts, loudly. “You can’t only speak to me for the rest of your life babe.”

First of all, yes he can. Second, Turbo likes the implication that Wesley will be around until he dies. It isn’t like he ever doubted it, but after all of the drama around them he’s pleased to hear it confirmed.

Coming to the understanding that there isn’t a thing he can do that will convince Turbo to join him, Wesley gives up, stretches up to kiss his scarred cheek before jogging off to join his friends.

It probably wouldn’t do him much good, there’s too much to learn and like spelling and talking Turbo doesn’t need another venue for people to mock how he communicates. It’s frustrating enough to struggle to pull the words together in his head let alone to use his hands for something that seems so delicate and precise.

Wheeler looks deliberately at him as everyone settles down into smaller groups crowded around him and the pretty girl Turbo supposes is Victoria. It’s a challenging look, a deliberate glance towards his boyfriend, finishing with a questioning brow.

Turbo ends up hovering nearby to keep an eye on his boyfriend, only because he still hasn’t decided what his opinion of the Cheermazon’s is and not that he’s half-heartedly listening to Wheeler and his friend explain the basic hand gestures.

\-----

Sometimes Turbo wonders whether he should have given Wesley a real gun.

It’s never in the moments when his boyfriends furious with him, when he grunts a little too _aggressively_ at the more delicate kids, when he asks one time too many when they’re going to leave. In the adamant manner with which Turbo refuses to acknowledge the people he’s had killed. Or when he’s feeling particularly foul and bruising for a fight and Wesley’s the only one that has it in him to deal with his temper.

No, it’s at times like this when he’s slumped against a pillar at the back of the crowd as they all _ooh_ and _ahh_ like a bunch of fuck-wits at the film Wesley’s hooked a projector up to beam over a patchwork canvas of white sheets. Even with the sound effects down and it’s nearing two in the morning the Daybreakers are taking so much delight out of this impromptu cinema set up that they’re on the third film of the night and nobodies moved since the beginning.

Turbo’s only here because he’s got no other choice, it isn’t like he’d willingly sit through another one of those Avengers films (they all argue, and then big surprise, bandy together to beat the bad guy, _exhilarating_). No he’s still sitting on the outskirts of the group because he’s trying to be supportive of the smug fucker curled up against his chest.

Wesley’s just so _proud_ of himself.

And he should be, the morale boost from tonight will buoy the tribe for at least a week, a reminder that they can have these throwbacks, the world can’t take everything from them. Wesley’s given them that, he’s the type of person that can affect countless numbers, bring them hope and joy by simply being himself. He’s still the guy cheering them on, only it’s no longer restricted to amping up the football team.

But Wesley’s not sat amongst his tribe, he’s lighting up and resting his head back against Turbo’s chest, seemingly content for now.

Turbo can’t help but wonder whether Wesley, like his father, might be better off with those that need him more.

The problem is that Turbo’s an incredibly selfish person, he’s never had a reason not to be, aside from the person muttering inaccuracies about spaceships and lamenting the lack of real samurai’s.

Wesley’s worth trying to do better for.

And isn't it typical that when he’s stuck trying to evaluate himself it’s hard not to picture his dad, the copy and paste issues that Turbo doesn’t need help to know he has thanks to the man. It’s most likely that his plane crashed down somewhere at sea, and for some reason he pictures the irony that would have been his mutated father chasing down the very kids that the fuck left him to save.

Turbo has never claimed not to be a sick guy, so it doesn’t surprise him that he dozes off to the image on more than one occasion.

In the end Turbo, despite his determined efforts to remain a furiously selfish man, can’t leave it well enough alone, and he’s still brewing on the matter the next night when it’s just the two of them in the sneaker store Wesley’s set up shop in. (He keeps an eye out for any of Angelica’s treasure trove of pointed objects).

Ninja something or the others playing on a smaller rig than the one in the main area and Turbo’s still not got a clue what it’s about, but it makes Wesley happy where he slouches, feet propped on top of Turbo’s legs, beloved sword perched in his lap while he cleans it.

“I’m just saying babe, you want to watch the prequel, it’s a whole ‘nother story. Makes a lot more sense.”

Suddenly Turbo has to know, has to understand why he can’t let this go.

Without giving it much thought, a pattern of his he needs to stop following, Turbo finds his hand closes over Wesley’s and the rōnin freezes up when he closes his fingers around the sword and brings both hand and weapon up until the gleaming edge rests against his open collarbone.

_You can._

There’s a slight tremble when Turbo lets go, a scrape against the column of his neck and Wesley’s eyes flutter shut for a second.

“You’d let me?”

Yeah, he would. Wesley must feel it because there’s a small increase of pressure that with a blade wielded by such a master makes Turbo’s pulse hammer.

Wesley’s grip steadies, pressing forward until a burning line forges down Turbo’s neck and he can feel blood beading up to the surface. “Would you ever fight back?”

Turbo would shake his head but he can’t and so he has to settle with the most inferior way he has to communicate. Like he’s said before, his brain can think of the words, but drawing them out to make sense, to write them, speak them, it’s another level of hell and it always has been. So he sticks to the basic truth.

_I couldn’t ever hurt you._

Though according to Wesley he has, Turbo’s hurt him in so many ways and thinking about that makes his head pulse with rapid bursts of pain. All he can do is never mean to and hope that’s enough.

The blade vanishes, a fist cracks into his jaw with a shattering force, Wesley climbs into his lap and Turbo takes his lower lip between his teeth.

(Turbo doesn’t realise how angry his offer makes his boyfriend until Wheeler comments on the brilliant black-purple-blue hue of his skin the next day and Wesley uncharacteristically snaps at him for the concern.)

\-----

Wesley starts helping him on ghoulie watch.

Turbo doesn’t expect it of him, but he won’t turn down the company, even when he knows that his boyfriends still trying to plan ‘the party to end all parties’.

Strangely, he also feels like he’s being tested in some way. Wesley has an agenda of some kind and Turbo doesn’t really see why.

“KJ was saying that a few of the kids have been saying that they should help you out-”

_No._

Wesley continues on like he never spoke. “It might be good to get a few extra hands on board in case you’re busy.”

Turbo gives Wesley his foulest look. _They’ll get eaten and I’m not saving them._

“Fine, point taken.”

_Are we leaving yet?_

He asks out of mere formality at this point more than he ever expects Wesley’s answer to change.

“Would it kill you to try and enjoy yourself here?”

Yes, it probably would. _Here for you._

Wesley has the nerve to scowl at him, a remarkable feat when he’s halfway through a pack of some shitty celebrity named weed.

_What?_

“You know what.”

Unlike most of the terrible films they used to watch together (which Turbo will never admit aloud because Wesley might really break up with him if he insults his classics), Turbo isn’t some fuck-head reading a bad script. He knows what Wesley wants from him.

The answer is to try a whole lot harder than he has, and that doesn’t bother him quite so much when he realises that he’s stopped actively planning alternative locations for them to flee to.

He remembers this conversation when they go out at dawn the next day and there’s already a bonfire alight. It’s hastily constructed, too much weight on one side, probably won’t take more than a few ghoulies at a time.

But most important of all is the group of kids shuffling about, clutching a selection of what suspiciously looks like Angelica’s brand of weapons.

Turbo turns to his boyfriend and grunts his frustration.

“So, I kind of told KJ that we’d love some help and these are the volounteers. Don't start.”

Wesley looks tired, waiting for Turbo to lose his temper and for the first time Turbo thinks about how many things the samurai’s juggling. There’s a rasp to his voice, an ever so slight sway to his motions and it leaves a fresh puncture in Turbo’s side, guilt trickling in through the hole.

_You’re teaching them_.

Wesley’s chest puffs up and he levels Turbo with a relieved look that only pokes a few extra holes in his stomach. “Leave it to me babe, you concentrate on doing the whole sexy, brooding bodyguard for me.”

There’s a lot of things he’d like to say if they were alone, instead Turbo storms off to deal with a slow pack of ghoulies that won’t shut the fuck up about holiday shares in the Bahamas.

Watching the Daybreakers over the next few hours is a lesson in patience if Turbo ever fucking had one, and on more occasions than he’d comfortably like he has to jump forward to help Wesley prevent the idiots from being eaten. At one point, after a kid almost serves his arm up on a plate, Turbo has to look up at the sky and pray to a god he doesn’t believe in for the strength to remain calm with this bullshit.

But Wesley thrives, eager and fresh and young again as he runs between everyone. His sword flashing, renting apart ghoulies and at one point Turbo realises he’s not the only one staring at the man in awe.

It’s the longest he’s ever taken on a patrol, Angelica comes out part way through to help hurry them along, the bonfire collapses just like he expected and by the time they trudge back into the mall Turbo’s tempers held in check by the force of Wesley’s positivity and nothing else.

Though he almost flips his own boyfriend off when the fucker confirms times for the next morning.

What he doesn’t anticipate is KJ and her friends, all gathered near the entrance with trays of large paper cups.

“We thought that everyone might like a drink after all of the hard work.”

Turbo rolls his eyes, makes to shoulder past the group when he’s held up by the, admittedly, cleverest person in this awful tribe. “Drink?”

KJ’s brow furrows when he shakes his head and strangely he finds her ire less of an irritation and more something that if serious could be a real threat. “It’s just homemade lemonade, not poison.”

Turbo doesn’t doubt that but he can also recall the amount of times somebody would try to mix things in his drinks when he was the star quarterback out celebrating after a big win.

“Oh, for gods sake.” KJ snatches the cup back and takes a long draw from it. “See, happy?”

He is. But he’s also a bit of a dick. _Now it’s contaminated._

Wesley and Angelica laugh at- with him. Turbo finds equal pleasure in that, though each for different reasons.

\-----

“I bet I can convince you to help.” Angelica cockily announces while she tries to glue sheets of soundproof foam together. The Witch is swinging from a precariously thin bit of rope a dozen feet off of the ground so she can fix the pieces against the glass doorways. A back-up plan in case there’s a leak in the music.

“Better safe than sorry.” Wheeler told everyone who could listen.

Turbo is still in the mindset where he thinks the whole event is a joke and is determined to ignore the blonde’s various pleas for help.

“I’m not joking, you’ll be my errand boy before you know it.” She pauses to give him a pair of finger guns.

It might be worth more if she hadn’t spent the last hour saying the same series of things, a string of lazy threats and compromises and insults that carry no weight because she means no harm behind them.

Turbo would like to point out that the only person that’s ever been able to persuade him to do anything is Wesley, and even then they’ve butted heads over a few minor points like murder and so on.

“Just think, what if we don’t get sturdy, reliable headphones and they break, or the bluetooth fails when there’s so many people on the same system? Then this bit of soundproof cladding will be the only thing protecting everybody.”

Turbo goes back to oiling his knife and laughing silently at her efforts.

Angelica shrugs nonchalantly, picks up a large sheet of padded foam and smiles sweetly. It looks poisonous. “No worries.”

He doesn’t like that, Angelica Green doesn’t capitulate. Turbo’s only really gotten to know her in the past few weeks and already he’s aware that she manipulates and torments and _talks_ until she gets what she wants, and despite himself he’s now curious.

Crumble swings down, the rope pulling taut as she dangles from her ankle to collect the sheet before impressive core muscles tighten and she sits bolt upright on nothing but air. “Wesley’s going to get eaten.”

_What does she mean?_

Angelica’s becoming the second person who’s fluent in Turbo. Her smiles viper sharp now as she struggles to pull up a large wooden board. “Well, his fancy music decks going to be closest to this set of doors so any faster ghoulies will hit him first before the rest of us.”

She’s lying. It’s there in the curve of her brow, the flush in her cheeks, eyes gleaming bright. But is he willing to take the risk?

Turbo picks up the board and hefts it into place.

_You’re clever._

“I’d love to take all of the credit, but Josh and Wesley thought that it would be the only way to make you help when their out.”

Of course they did. Turbo would like to pretend he’s mad about it.

\-----

The party’s not what Turbo expects.

Considering he possibly might have ruined the last event - which he still won’t own up to - he might be mistaken in thinking that Wesley would aim for a different kind of vibe this time around.

Which shows that sometimes Turbo is an idiot.

The malls brighter, the music louder in their headphones, lights strobing and arching across the rippling bodies. To his surprise most of the tribes are there, not mingling so much as bunching together but still bouncing about like pogo sticks, actually… no, he’s wrong. That’s definitely a disciple of Kardashia and a STEM punk disappearing off together, which is about as scandalous as modern life gets for them now.

Wesley’s on the stage, lost in the music as he’s used to doing and Turbo, between pacing about the mall on a self-appointed security watch, has been watching him avidly. Angelica’s at his side, taser shielded with her long rainbow sleeves, the onesie she’s touting isn’t far off of her slime lord outfit and for some reason it’s got Turbo smiling when he doesn’t catch it in time.

“Oi, Eli!” Angelica catches the shit before he does, pushing what looks like a mop on wheels, with lipstick…

_What are you doing?_

Turbo doesn’t realise he’s asked until the Gremlin looks at him with the widest, shit eating grin. “Bringing mop Sam Dean out to join in the party.”

The best case scenario is that the brat ends up dead and Turbo wants nothing to do with that so he waves his hand in the general direction he last saw Wheeler being led in a quickstep by the - has he mentioned this enough times yet - far superior KJ.

“Try and have some fun Frankenstein. You’re scaring the children.”

Angelica waves her taser threateningly and the boy darts off into the crowd with his prize. “God, he’s such a douche.”

That he is, and Turbo tries once more to dismiss her because he doesn’t need to have back up on his rounds, she should be out there having fun and it seems the The Witch has the same ideas.

“Come, come be monsters with me.” Crumbles headphones dwarf her head. Heavy duty industrial things that Turbo hooked out of a construction site specially for her.

Frankly he’s relieved when the blonde disappears into the crowd, she’s fine company but also a distraction. It’s not that he doesn’t believe in KJ’s announcement at the beginning, a twelve hour peace, an amnesty between the tribes across Glendale, more that he doesn’t think she, or Wheeler, or any Daybreaker has the power to declare that.

Plus…

Sam Dean’s here. Mona Lisa at her side.

That’s it, whether the one encounter between them put the Jock’s off or the sores are still raw and blistered, the tribes lack of presence sticks out.

Though maybe not as much as it could. The one thing Turbo can’t imagine anyone being able to say is that Sam Dean doesn’t have one hell of a presence as the pair walk in with the brazen attitude of people that know they’re invincible.

Mona Lisa carries herself with all of the grace and pride his old second should have been known for, rather than that shitty moniker. She glances about the room and challenges the whole lot of them to just try and start, because that’s what Mona Lisa does, she openly dares hell to reign down on her.

Turbo might have been tempted to tell her that it’s the ballsiest thing he’s seen if it weren’t likely that she’d crush his for the compliment.

He watches as the pair present one of the oldest bottles of whiskey that the Jocks found in the first few weeks, a crazy racist hoarders stash of all things spirit related. Turbo can still remember spitefully burning the three thousand pages of doorstopper bullshit the guy spent his life writing. That was the night that he and Wesley drank until they fell over one another laughing together.

Sam shakes the bottle once, twice, takes a liberal swig and then offers it to Wheeler, the atmosphere warms when upon drinking both leaders nod civilly to one another.

For the first time, while Mona leads Sam onto the dance floor, Turbo can actually see the evening going well. The pair make a statement, probably have a plan on how they can present a united front, plotting all sorts of nefarious bullshit. But they’ve come, outnumbered a hundred to one, and Mona’s twirling the blonde in her arms so maybe they can all breathe that bit easier.

It’s for this reason that Turbo confiscates mop Sam Dean, to Eli’s disgust, which only makes it that much more satisfying.

Out of curiosity he checks the music out, a loud beat that throbs behind his eyes in time with the multicoloured lights flashing aggressively in his face. He’s going to pull them off, prefers the silence honestly, but then Wesley’s in his face, grabbing his wrist, the palm of his hand warm, fingertips pressing against the delicate veins and judging his even pulse boring. “Dance with me.”

Turbo’s can’t dance, not properly, however he knows how Wesley moves, he’s made it his job to learn every curve of his body, the motions of his arms and the length of his legs as they tangle between and around Turbo’s. _No._

If they need someone to decapitate a guy then Turbo would be happy to give a full length demonstration to a crowd. Dancing is another beast altogether.

Wesley speaks Turbo and that’s never been truer than now when he fiddles with a controller that has the lights darkening, music blaring louder, harder, and everybody loses their collective shit, electricity humming and crackling from body to body. “Nobody’s looking at us, so come on.”

He’s hot, sweat prickling at the back of his neck and maybe he isn’t entirely upset that Wesley saw fit to trash his old gear when it means his boyfriend can lean up and hook an arm around his neck with ease. His hips jump to the rolling beat, demanding attention and Turbo wants to give it to him.

Turbo _can’t _dance, but he knows that Wesley likes to feel weightless, likes to unravel and so he spins him out with instincts alone helping him, anchors himself so when momentum should take over he snaps his arm, pulls and dips his boyfriend in an easy sweep.

Wesley’s mouth is open and laughing and it alone is worth putting up with all of this as they move. “Not bad, seven out of ten.”

_Should have dropped you._

“Yeah, you probably should.”

This, he’s good at this, can barely feel the strain in his arms despite the way Wesley’s weight is mostly airborne at one point, the breathless grin that’s just for him. Sweat prickles across his neck, and Turbo’s about to offer another dance as the song changes when, by the time the tempo picks up, Wesley surges up and kisses him.

There probably won’t ever be a time when they don’t remember how to move together, and the ease of moving through the crowds of people jumping and laughing and making a whole lot of noise, is only easy because he leads and Wesley protects the soft of his back. That’s how they’ve always been, one covering and one shielding, achievable only through a push-and-pull knowledge of how the other works and Turbo knows now that the reason he failed so utterly is because he let things rot until he lost that steady light in his life.

He’s going to tell Wesley this when they finally get to the rooftop but the rōnin is done with waiting, knows how Turbo carries his weight and takes an easy swipe behind his ankle to send them both to the ground.

Wesley’s smile is boyish and playful and Turbo thinks, as his shoulder smart from the impact, that he’s never seen someone so beautiful.

\-----

“What the fuck was that?” Wesley pauses on the fire escape, panting heavily.

Eli groans, clutching at a stitch. “No idea, did you see how many teeth it had?”

There’s a thump as Angelica falls back against the brick wall, fumbling in her pack for a molotov. “I’m calling it now, mutant house cats.” She flicks a lighter with ease and sends the first missile over the railing and three floors down, the contents of the dumpster below sparking up like dry tinder.

“I’m telling you now, I’ll sacrifice one of you to Anubis before my cards get clawed up.”

“Anyone see KJ and Josh?” Angelica risks leaning forward, another bottle held high to be safe.

“I saw them peel off towards the Cheermazon’s territory.” Wesley cautiously steps forward to join the blonde.

“Great, we only have to out-wait this thing until they come.”

Turbo watches all of this in amusement, hunches his shoulders as they all peer down at the alleyway, reluctant to tell them that the terrifying monster they’ve spent the last forty minutes sprinting across Glendale from was nothing more than an oversized hamster that happily took the jar of Nutella Turbo swiped from Wheeler’s bag.

He should probably say something, goes to tell Wesley when a coincidental howl from what’s probably a lost Pomeranian has all three of his companions tearing up the next flight, Angelica’s second molotov smashing into the ground.

“We’re leaving,” Wesley calls down as Turbo climbs up after them, “I’m done with this shit, the second we get back pack the fuck up, babe.”

_Okay_.

It’s interesting, as he follows the hysterical group onto rooftop, how that’s what he’s been waiting to hear even in jest since the beginning. Turbo thinks about it while Angelica shouts at him once he reveals the truth, when Eli’s cursing him out for leaving until the very last second as he’s about to perform some bullshit ritual to the gods for help.

Mostly he thinks about it when Wesley’s lighting up a smoke and lamenting about his terrible choice in men. Because it might have been enough for him to lose it once upon a time, but now Turbo finds it funny. He’s as close to laughing when Angelica threatens to set him on fire than he’s been since all of this started, and it’s always a joy to watch Eli blow up.

When KJ and Wheeler (Josh, but never to his face) find them a few hours later, while they trudge back across the city, Turbo finds that he’s included in their checks, that he’s inventoried the same kind of way, searched for wounds and treated with smiles when all’s well.

“I’m done for today,” Wheeler groans, “lets go home.”

Turbo’s had an ongoing campaign against calling the mall home, and yet he follows along with the rest of them, listens to Angelica brag about her nerves of steel, raises a brow when Eli tries to take credit for defending everyone. His brain sends out a warning, wants to be _sure_ that he’s really doing this, that out of all of the messes he’s charged into, this is the one he’s going to commit to.

Wesley lingers at the rear, holds out a hand and Turbo doesn’t realise that he’s staring absently in the direction of the school. He thinks about what he’s asked of the samurai over the last few months, the things he’s demanded and the one very simple request he’s been given in return.

“You coming?”

Turbo grunts, squeezes Wesley’s long, graceful fingers once, twice in confirmation, and lets his boyfriend lead them home.

**Author's Note:**

> Is this technically an unhealthy ship? Yes. Are we going to ship it in this house anyway? Yes. Will I liberally add as many ships as possible in here all through Turbo's grumpy pov by the end? Yes, yes, a thousand times yes :D


End file.
